Rain, sweet rain
by LiiiSherlockJunkiee
Summary: Second part of the "Hate and other Feelings" series. It was raining. Hard. John hoped that nobody would see him here, standing alone in one of London's uglyest alleyways, completely drenched and talking with what seemed to be an ordinary thrashcan. He would never live it down. And Sherlock? Was being Sherlock.


**Alright, to defend myself...no I've got absolutely not one single clue why it took me so long to continue with writing. Well, what should I say, life fu*s us all.**

**Anyway, enjoy and pleeeeeeease write a review, especially IDEAS are most welcome!**

**Rain**

"Sherlock"

He ignored him. Bloody ignored him. John had known he would regret to accompany his mad flatmate to look for something which relates in some twisted way with their current case. Hell, the doctor didn't even knew _what _they were searching. Was it a clue, another dead body, the murderer himself or just being here for fun or whatever stupid excuse Sherlock would rub him in the face. It didn't matter though because John was content to know one single thing: It rained. Well, that wasn't comletely correct. To be precise, it DRAINED, and here he was with his best friend who seemingly had gone completely nuts because he just jumped into a gigantic thrashcan just to completely vanish in it, muttering words and sentences in another language.

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?", the doctor finally asked impatiently while fidgeing uncomfortably in his wet clothes. Why hadn't he took his coat with him again? Oh yes, because a certain brilliant Consulting Detective wanted to leave imidiatly because there would have stood a chance that the trashcan could _run away. _At least this would be the only explanation John could come up with for Sherlocks questioning hurry.

"Oh John, isn't it obvious?" came the muffled reply and the blond hoped that nobody would see him here, someweher in one of London's uglyest alleys, completely drenched and talking with what seemed to be an ordinary thrashcan. He would never live it down.

"Not to me"

"Obviously"

"Oh stop to 'obvious-me' and answer the damn question or I will personally go to Mycroft and tell him that you were Mr. Annonym who sent him a chocolate cake to his birthday. Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't figured it out yet but than again you Holmes brothers are a hopless cause with everything which just scraches the area of feelings"

Suddenly there appeared a mess of curls over the edge of the can and two piercing eyes stared down at me as if they were willing to set me on fire.

"You wouldn't dare"

"D'you wanna try me?" Without another word Sherlock jumped back onto the ground and huffed annoyed, but John also detected a hint of well-hidden panic in his face.

"You weren't supposed to ever find out about this"

"Oh really?" the doctor grinned and crossed his arms.

"Well, I suppose it's too bad you weren't able to bake it yourself, isn't it? Such a shame"

"It wasn't my fault! The eggs were stupid"

"I'm sure" John laughed and Sherlock pulled a pout. Suddenly thunder started grwoling over their heads and the raindrops grew even more bigger than they were before.

"Sherlock, we have to go"

"NO" the detective took a step back and shook his wet curl with a vehemence he only showed with things which caught his interrest.

"Now you're being just stubborn, if you haven't noticed it's bloody storming!"

"Go home then, there's nobody who holds you back"

"Sherlock..."

"By John"

With that he dove into the disgustingly smelling mass of tharsh again. John stood there and stared. He really should go home, his shoulder was aching painfully, his nose had started running and he already lost the feeling in his fingertips and toes. Go home and read a book. Drink a tea. Relishing the moment of utter peace. Alright, who the hell was he kidding? With a deep sight he followed the brunet into the depth of the thrashcan. They needed another half an hour to find the murder weapon for which Sherlock _obviously_ was looking for since the beginning. Walking back proofed to be a lot more tireing than even the detective had expected. As they passed another street from which they knew they would need another 15 minutes to reach their flat (taxis wouldn't take them) John had started to utter very creative curses.

"Stupid rain. Why must it rain? Couldn't in once, just _once_ be a beautiful, clear day?"

"In case you haven't noticed, which I hope is not true because this would mean that I overestimated you braincapabillity quite a lot, we ARE living in London"

"Shut up. Bloody rain. Right now I hate it with everything I'm capable of"

Sherlock tried to hide the smal smile which had crept onto his face during their conversation. "That's a rather strong emotion consdidering it to be most certainly unrequired"

"I said _shut up. _Wait, what are you doing?" The young man didn't answer and continued to open his coat, freed his left arm and draped the now loose end of it over John's shoulders, automatically pulling him flush against his side.

"You're cold so I'm sharing bodyheat. Do try to keep up John, it's tedious to explain such plain things to you"

They were silent for the rest of the way, but the doctor kept on smiling silently to himself, coming to the conclusion that no, he didn't hate the rain. And if Sherlock did have to lay his arm around the others shoulder to prevent the coat from slipping away, neither of them mentionned it.

Mycroft though, who was currently sitting at his desk and looked at a most amusing picture of the sort of cuddling pair of 221b Bakerstreet strolling down the streets in the midle of a thunder, wouldn'd just let this slip. The elder Holmes smiled to himself.

"Sociopath indeed, little brother. Anthea, phone Lestrade. I've got something he most definitely will find very usefull"

"Yes Sir"

...

**Next part will be posted faster than this one, I promise! As long as somebody is reading all this crap of course ;)**

**Love you all!**


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